


All that space in between where we stand

by revolver56



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Found Family, Adoptive family, Alternate Universe - Western, Cowboys, Family Dynamics, Late 1800s, M/M, Slow Burn, alternate universe - cowboys, annoyances to lovers, boba is similarly feisty, din is feisty, din just keeps making friends, eventual fatherhood, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:41:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolver56/pseuds/revolver56
Summary: After a toe-to-toe dance with death, Din decides to leave home and find his lost brother. In an effort to save his family, he just might find another one.Boba's tired of his reputation and tired of people thinking they know him. Lucky for him, Din Djarin doesn't know the first thing.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 58
Kudos: 160





	1. I remember the day I left headin' way out west

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ!! For all time appropriate intents and purposes, the Armorer is referred to as "Auntie" in this story. She isn't really an armorer in this AU either, so the name can't really apply haha. 
> 
> I've been absolutely in love with this ship for a hot while now and when I got this idea in my head, I just kept going with it. This is the first time I've really written into two years, so I'm looking forward to getting back into the swing of things!
> 
> The story title is from the song "Chance" by Angel Olsen. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of death, Din has some revelations about his life and makes a big decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is from Lord Huron's song "I Will Be Back One Day" (:

Din had been dying. 

He'd been in the mines, the air thick with dirt and sweat, when a wave of nausea moved through him. He had to pause, steady himself on a support beam, take a few deep breaths. The moment he lifted his hand away from the beam, he stumbled and caught the attention of another miner. 

"You good, Djarin?"

"Think I'm gonna be sick," he managed out. His collar felt too tight all of a sudden, and his skin far too warm. 

"Why don't you get out of here? You're almost done for the day anyways. The way you're lookin', I'd figure you might drop dead." 

Din was going to protest, to argue that he would be fine, he would get over it — then another bout of nausea hit him and he heaved a bit. "Alright, I'm gone," he said. 

"You take it easy, Djarin."

Din held a hand over his stomach as he made his way out of the mineshaft, moving at a pace slow enough he didn't fear he would get sick where he stood. The walk he took from town and into the forest took far longer than usual.

Auntie had the porch of the cabin lit up, sky growing dark enough she must have figured Din would need a little more guidance, considering he was home later than normal. He realized she was out there waiting for him once he was close enough to make out more than lights. 

"What's wrong?" Was the first thing she asked. Even through the darkness of the forest she could see the difference in Din's posture. 

He waved a dismissive hand, despite the growing pain in his stomach. "Just feel a little sick, that's all. I'm gonna sleep it off."

She still descended the short staircase of the cabin, came to his side and placed a hand on his arm like she would when he was younger. She led him inside. "Your skin is hot."

"I work in a stuffy mineshaft, of course it's hot," he retorted. She raised a brow at him, which he huffed at. 

Auntie freed him of her grasp once he reached his bedroom. "Rest, Din. I would hate to clean puke out of these floors."

He gave an amused breath of laughter. She let him be and he peeled off his clothes down to his union suit and crawled into bed. He tossed and turned with the ache sloshing through his body, making his skin warm and his head pulse. Sleep just barely found him an hour later. 

He woke up feeling worse — cold sweats, fever, dry-heaving and all. His first and only attempt to remove himself from bed resulted in a near ruining of the same floors Auntie protested for.

Auntie put a cold wet rag over his head and tried spoon-feeding him a bit of stew before she left him to get a doctor in town. The hours he spent in her absence were fuzzy and fever-laced. 

The doctor wasn't sure what exactly Din had come down with, but he said he had seen the type of fever before — abrupt and unmerciful. "Most people don't live," he had said. "Mr. Djarin here might be on his last limb, I'm sorry to say."

Talk about a downer. 

When the doctor left — only advising him to stay in bed and take it easy if he had any hopes of recovering or, at the least, dying _somewhat_ peacefully — Auntie lingered in the doorway for a long moment. Din knew what she was thinking about, because he was thinking about the same thing. 

When he was much younger and fresh with the loss of his parents and his childhood home, a boy not too much older than him found Din trying to steal from a local market. 

"You're liable to get caught with technique like that," he had said. Din near jumped out of his skin with the sudden appearance of the boy, but furrowed his brow.

"I didn't get caught though, did I?" 

The boy grinned, "Auntie'll like you."

Paz had led him off to a girl who couldn't have been much more than a teenager. She looked at Din with curious eyes, then to Paz, and a smile found her face. "Who have you brought me?"

"A crook," Paz grinned. Din got nervous just for a minute, before Auntie knelt down and held out a hand to him. "You can call me Auntie. What's your name?"

Din returned with a shy hand. "Din Djarin. Hi, Auntie."

The three of them lived off of any passerby's pockets and the fruit stands of towns they drifted through. When Auntie had enough to buy a rifle for Din, he was about twelve. Paz taught him how to shoot it, and he complained the entire time. 

"You hold that damn trigger like you're the one getting shot," Paz grunted. Din glared at him. 

"I hold it like I've got a lick of patience, unlike you."

Paz, ever the hothead, growled back, "I'll show you patience—"

Auntie had to monitor their next lesson. 

Once both of the boys could shoot as well as they could bicker, they made an honest living selling the results of their hunts. Din could skin just about any animal handed to him by the time he was fourteen. 

Eventually, they had enough for a home. They settled in a poor mining community and bought a cabin just a mile or two away in the forest. Din and Paz would walk to work together each day, shoving each other in the shoulder and arguing over the color of the sky. In their spare time, they kept hunting, often finding the result of their hunts served for dinner when they came home. 

Din and Paz had been trying to fish in a new creek that they found in the forest, Din about nineteen, when Paz started looking restless. 

"You ever miss roaming?"

Din sniffed and adjusted how he sat, trying his best to keep from moving too much and wiggling his line. "What do you mean?"

Paz sighed and scratched at his chin. Din could tell he wasn't too concerned with what he caught, considering how carelessly he let the pole twitch in his grasp. His shoulders were stiff, though. 

"When we were younger, you know. When we would play dress-up and convince people we were two poor little boys without a home and then get their pity money."

Din snorted, "Wasn't too far from the truth. You miss playing dress-up and begging?"

Paz shoved him in the shoulder, eliciting a _hey_ from Din as his fishing line jerked in the water, surely scaring away any previously interested critters. 

"No, you bastard. Like…" Paz sighed again. "When we were living to _live_. Wandering from town to town, making money any way we could, seeing a different setting each week…" he trailed off. 

Din was growing still. "You miss surviving on the bare minimum?"

Paz sent a fiery glare his way. "No, damn it. I miss exploring. I miss wandering and meeting new folk and seeing the world."

"What about me and Auntie?" Din said lowly. He could see where Paz was going with this. 

Paz huffed, as though he were exasperated. "What about the family I got but never knew? Vizsla used to be a big name. I don't remember what happened to my folks but I — I get curious if they miss me sometimes."

"Almost twenty years and _now_ you're curious?" Din growled. He should have been kinder, maybe. He knew if he had family beyond his parents he would've wondered about them. 

Paz was rising to his feet now, pole jerking out of the water. Din followed him, unintimidated by the size of his brother. 

"Of course I'm curious, Din! This — you know I like our little family but that doesn't mean I forget about the one I had."

"Well, what are you gonna do, then? Leave us like you left them?" 

That had been the wrong thing to say. Paz punched him hard in the jaw, and a part of Din knew it was well deserved. The rest of him couldn't bear the idea of Paz abandoning him and Auntie, though, so he slammed his knuckles into Paz's shoulder. 

"Not everything is about you, you bastard!" Paz snarled, shoving Din back so he stumbled, near falling into the creek. 

Din's voice grew taut as he barked back, "I don't have any family besides you, aren't we enough?!"

Paz's brow drew, expression flustered. Din was huffing with his frustration, fists curled at his sides. 

"You—" Paz sputtered. "Damn it, Din. Damn it."

For once, Paz walked away instead of taking another swing. That alone terrified Din more than anything else. Something changed and Din had no idea when. 

"Paz," he called. His brother kept walking. _"Paz!"_

He didn't turn around. 

Paz was gone the next morning. No apology for the fight they had, no reassurance that _yes, you're enough, you bastard_. He didn't even say good-bye. 

Auntie only said that it was his decision. What ever hurt she might have been feeling didn't show on her face, but Din knew she had to be hurting somewhere. Paz had left them. And hell, it was Din's fault, wasn't it? He didn't even chase after him, barely tried to change his mind, and now he was gone. 

And now, here Din was. Just as useless as he had been before, more than a decade later. He was going to die — he was going to leave Auntie just like Paz did. Except, this time, she had to watch. 

In the height of his fever, weak and bleary-eyed, Din whispered an apology to her. 

"What do you have to be sorry for?" she asked, confusion crossing her features. She wiped the sweat from his forehead, brushing his matted curls away. 

"I should have gone after him," Din rasped. "It's my fault."

Her expressions had always been slight. She was a very put-together woman, making sure you could only see what she wanted you to see. Din's heart fell when her face was written with grief. 

"You couldn't have known," she said softly. He opened his mouth to argue, but she shushed him. "I know you fought before he left, and you told me what he said. But you didn't know he was going to up and leave. There isn't anything you could have done to change his mind."

Din bit back a whimper and couldn't stand looking her in the eye anymore. The past week he had spent in bed, just thinking again of all the ways he could have changed things in the last decade and failed to. And here was Auntie, trying to convince him, not for the first time, that Paz's leaving wasn't Din's fault. 

"I still should've tried," he whispered. 

"You didn't know," she repeated. Din wondered if she lost her family like she was losing him, slowly and quietly. She barely allowed the hurt on her face, but he saw it there. 

Din pictured every way he could have saved their family. Maybe he should have hit Paz harder. Maybe he shouldn't have hit him at all. Maybe he should have fell to his knees and begged him to stay. Paz could have taken care of Auntie when Din was gone, but instead he left, and Din didn't stop him. 

Din spent close to two weeks in bed, feverish and dry-mouthed. Auntie cared for him through it all, even with the knowledge that there was likely no point, considering what the doctor had said. 

_Most people don't live._

Most people. 

Din woke up one morning and he was able to sit up. Auntie found him, his back against the wall and head tipped to the ceiling. She let the surprise find her face. 

He got better from there, eventually able to make his way out of bed. He stumbled like a newborn deer, legs shaky and unsure after being unused for so long. Auntie barely tried to mask her amusement. 

If there was a way to permanently capture the taste of the air when he stepped foot outside for the first time in days, he would have done so. Everything felt a little newer — the trees, the breeze, the sun on his face — he wanted that feeling forever. He hadn't felt it in years. 

When they were sure Din could keep it down, Auntie fed him his favorite dinner, one she used to make for him and Paz every Sunday. Paz would say it was good luck for the week with how good it was. 

Din was sat on the porch in an old chair, legs stretched and a tin of coffee in his hands, when Auntie joined him. She gave him a short smile before sitting at the edge of the porch, legs over the ledge, her hands clasped. 

He took in the woods, the quiet rustling of leaves, and the sun's reflection on Auntie's hair. His chest ached, just a bit, as he stared out at the dusty trail leading out of the woods and into town. 

He lived. Days drowning in his own vomit and sweat, fever-dazed and kicking himself for every failure he'd had — just to sit on the porch, Auntie in sight, and coffee in his hand. 

There was a reason for that, wasn't there? Surviving something the doctor looked his near-mother in the eyes, and told her he wouldn't get through — Din couldn't just go back to mining his life away, rotting underground until he got sick again and died for real. 

Din inhaled shakily, stomach twisting. He glared out at the path leading away from their home. "Do you think Paz took a horse, or do you think he just walks across the country?"

Auntie glanced at him. A bit of shock and amusement danced through her eyes before she gave a thoughtful hum. 

"I think he jumps on any wagon with people on it and argues with them until they kick him off at the nearest train track."

Din smiled briefly, but it left just as quickly as it came. 

"I want to find him," he admitted. 

Auntie met his eyes again. He wondered if she could see the seriousness in him this time. 

Din had said something similar many times before. Auntie always gave him an unreadable expression, simply saying that he must do what feels right. Each time Din would nod sharply, then look in her eyes, and he would stay. 

"It's been a long time since he's left," she said, different to the last times. It caught his attention. "It may take years."

Din felt his chest ache. He rose from where he sat and crossed the porch, sitting down next to her. He set his coffee down and she took his hand before he could take her's. 

"Come with me," he began. "We can find him and bring him home."

Auntie patted his hand gently. "Din, you cannot force him to come back. If he's not dead, then he would have returned already."

Din flinched at the words — the idea of Paz leaving home, believing in whatever he believed in, and dying somewhere. He had thought about it before, but pushed it away each time. 

He hesitated, "Then… I just want to know why he left. He didn't — he didn't say good-bye, he just left. He should've at least said good-bye."

"Perhaps he knew he wouldn't be able to leave if he had to face us," she said. Din frowned. 

"Maybe he should have tried it that way then."

Auntie gave him a long look. "But he didn't, Din."

He sighed, breathed in the air, and felt the weight of her hand in his. He hadn't been apart from her, not truly, since he was ten. They had always been together. When Din became an adult, he stayed by her; wanted to care for her. He lost his only family and she gave him something so close to one. He had no idea how to repay her. Paz leaving just didn't make sense. 

"If you feel you must find him," she spoke, "then you must. For years I have watched you blame yourself and I do not know how to stop you from doing so. You need to forgive yourself, Din. If this is how, then you should go."

Din's eyes turned watery, and she squeezed his hand. "Not without you," he insisted. 

Auntie gave a gentle smile. She pulled her hand away and he exhaled shakily as she reached behind her neck, pulling her necklace off. She held it so he could see, the silver of it glinting under the sunlight. 

"Do you remember what this is?" she whispered. 

Din swallowed hard, voice coming out in rasps. "The — the mythosaur. You told the story to us when we were younger, the story of the lost people."

She nodded, "The Mandalorians. Warriors, who protected their families without doubt and without hesitance. They loved fiercely." Auntie took his hand again, placing it over her's with the necklace in it. "My mother gave this to me. We were a lost family. For the many years I have travelled with you and Paz, I considered that we were a lost family, too. But we had each other. And though he has left, I still think of both of you when I look at it."

Auntie pressed the necklace into his palm and used her hands to curl his fingers around it. He looked at her with surprise, eyes filling with tears. 

"I am always with you, Din. And though he has left, so is Paz. So is your mother and father. So are mine. We are no longer lost, because of our family. If finding Paz is what you need to realize this, then you must go."

Din squeezed his eyes shut, the mythosaur somehow heavy in his hand. He pressed his face into Auntie's shoulder to cry, and she let him. 

She would choose a broad-faced stallion for him at the stable, gray and dappled with black. The horse had pressed his big nose into Din's hair and snuffed, lighting Auntie's eyes with amusement. The saddle they picked was sturdy and lined with small engravings that curled and swirled. 

"I want you to take my rifle," Auntie said, once they had packed his things and stuffed the saddle bags. Din's mouth had fallen agape, unsure as she handed it to him. It had always been Paz's favorite gun to shoot — he insisted that the marksmanship of it was within the coyote engraved in the stock of it. It was the only time Din had heard him say _not because I'm such a great shot._

Din held it tight, "Are… Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I still have yours, should anything happen."

He sickened at the thought. She noticed the expression cross his face. 

"Which it won't. It hasn't for the past fifteen years, Din. This town is safe. And I am perfectly capable."

Din smiled a bit, "I know. I just worry."

She returned the smile. "Your concern is appreciated."

Din mounted his stallion, hands a bit hesitant on the reigns. He hadn't ridden in a while. 

He looked out at the trail where Paz had disappeared so long ago, on a night where nobody heard him. The sun was shining, now, though. The mythosaur hung from his neck. This was different. 

Din gazed at her. "I _will_ come back. I promise."

Her smile did not change. 

"I will be here."

When Din reached the outskirts of town with the wind tousling his hair, sun warming his skin, and the sky seemingly endless — he understood, briefly, what Paz had been talking about all those years ago. 

_It may take years_ , Auntie had said. Din would search the world if he had to. 

Din had been dying, but he lived. There was a reason for that, wasn't there? 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback of any kind is appreciated!


	2. Last cigarettes are all you can get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din takes a job and gets an important piece of information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter doesn't bore anyone too bad! I promise exciting things happen!
> 
> Chapter title is from "Jesus, Etc." by Wilco (:

"How much you paying?"

Trask was run down. The town itself was sort of swamp-like and dirty, the sort he knew Auntie would have greatly disliked the moment they stepped in. Its streets were packed almost too tightly with people, the air thick with heat — maybe they would have stayed briefly in town. Din could see a younger version of him and Paz picking out whose pockets were the easiest to slip their hands into; which stands had just the right amount of distraction surrounding them to incite enough confidence to swipe something. Paz would brag about what he managed, even if it was just a single coin. 

Din wasn't entirely sure where to start looking for his brother. Over the past few weeks, drifting between towns and landscapes, he had found little to nothing. So it goes, when you've waited nearly two decades to hunt a lost soul. Talking about Paz to other people felt strange — asking about him and describing him — Din hadn't ever really _needed_ to. The small family they and Auntie had built together never had any reason to part, was never away from one another for too long. They never really grew close to anyone except for each other and, well, talking about Paz for the first time in years to people he didn't know… It felt wrong; like he was baring the rawest part of himself to strangers. Auntie's absence and the weight of the mythosaur only seemed to dig deeper in Din's stomach each time he tried to.

With no leads to follow, Din was sort of aimless. But he promised he would return, and he meant entirely to do so with Paz in tow. So for now, he travelled until someone knew something. In the meantime, money was still something to be had. Taking odd jobs was becoming a new custom — the conversation Din had overheard about Greef Karga's third bodyguard ditching the job to Nevarro just happened to pique his interest. 

The woman looked to him, surprised. Her features came together to show a mix of confusion and agitation. "And who are _you?"_

"A drifter," Din answered vaguely. "I'm just looking for a quick job. I can shoot, if it means anything. How much?"

The woman scoffed, nudging the man next to her with a strong hand. He appeared just as baffled by Din's proposition. 

"What reason we got to trust you?" The man asked, crossing his arms. The woman next to him raised a brow, as if anticipating Din's answer. 

He shrugged, "Just my word."

A look passed between the two guards, before the man sighed and uncrossed his arms. The woman gave him a huff of surprise. 

"Don't tell me you're considering it," she grunted. 

"We don't exactly have much choice, here, Cara. You know how Karga is with his," he gestured vaguely, "...numbers."

The woman, Cara, rolled her eyes. "Please _._ I'm sure he would rather have his _numbers_ messed up than get attacked by an opposer just because his guards were too lazy to find a proper replacement."

"We're due in an _hour,"_ the man insisted. 

"We don't _know_ this guy," Cara hissed back. 

Din sighed. _Is this how Paz and I looked?_

Cara caught the sound and opened her mouth, as though ready to tear into Din for being exasperated. Her companion cut her off. 

"Well, what's your rate?"

Din blinked, surprised. "What?"

Cara groaned and shoved the man in the shoulder. He shoved her back and began again, "What do you cost? Are we going to spend a fortune trusting a stranger or…?"

Din considered it for a moment, watching the man's patient gaze versus Cara's ever-glaring annoyance. His eyes caught a man by a tall, wooden rack, somewhere behind the wall bustling people. 

He pointed to him. "How much do you think that guy sells those boots for?"

Both Cara and the man glanced back at the rack, then down to Din's feet. 

His boots were probably the same age as Paz's absence. 

"Hopefully not too much," the man answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few wadded banknotes. His and Din's hands met between them, the paper crunching quietly. The man held him there for a minute, a seriousness filling his eyes. 

"If a pair of shoes is all you’re worth, for the love of God, make them a good pair."

Din nodded, and was freed of the grasp. He heard Cara complain as he stepped away. 

Greef Karga was, apparently, a politician. Din didn't know much about those and never cared to. What he did know was that Karga had a very off-putting way of looking people over. 

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't Mayfeld bald?"

Cara growled, " _Mayfeld's_ a bastard." She waved a stiff hand in Din's direction, "This guy more than happily took his place."

"He's experienced," the guard who barely swayed Cara offered. There was no way he could know that, but his faith was admirable. Cara quietly snorted next to him. 

Karga hummed, eyeing Din carefully. "Alright. I am trusting you on this, Woves,” he said to the man. His gaze drifted to Cara, and he nodded to her. “Dune.”

Karga stepped away to climb into his coach. The fourth guard followed him inside, while Cara lifted herself onto the back and Woves, the man who vouched for Din, did the same in the front, taking the horses’ reins into his hands. Din saddled his stallion, following alongside the wagon as they began to move. They made it out of Trask and into the empty plains before Cara spoke up.

“You shouldn’t keep your rifle holstered, you know,” she said to Din. “We’re guarding, not escorting.”

Din raised a brow at her. “I’d say anyone who sees a coach being surrounded by guns is going to figure its cargo to be valuable. That’s a bit indiscrete, don’t you think?”

Woves let out a huff of laughter ahead of them. Karga must have been bored of the guard within the wagon, because he decided to join the conversation. “Our new friend makes a good point, Dune,” he said, dragging the small curtain of the window back.

Cara glanced at Karga, then Din, and sighed. She slid her revolver back into her hip holster. “You’re a piece of work, _drifter_."

The sun was beginning to set by the time they got within five miles of Nevarro. Din figured that this was definitely going to be one of his easier jobs, besides the uncomfortable bouts of attention he had received. That was, until it wasn’t. 

“Axe!” Cara called to the front. Woves turned to her. “Yeah?”

She gestured out to the plains they had already crossed, where the sun and the grass met. Three figures were outlined on the horizon, with the steady sound of hooves rumbling into the ground. They were travelling a bit too fast to be shrugged off.

“Trouble?” Din asked, right hand drifting just slightly to Auntie’s rifle, still holstered in his stallion’s saddle. Cara made a flappy gesture for Din to _stop_ , though she removed her revolver from her side. Din blinked to Woves, seeing him slip out his own gun to set beside his thigh. Cara tapped on the side of the coach and gathered the other guard’s attention, warning him and Karga of the fast-approaching strangers. 

“Act natural,” Cara said.

“Because you’re so good at that,” Woves retorted.

“Would you cut that out?”

“Cut what out?”

 _How did Auntie_ ever _put up with me and Paz?_

When the hoofbeats made it closer in range, they settled a bit, the three strangers forming a sort of pod, with one at the front. Their leader wore a pistol on his hip, sunset glaring off of it. A woman with twin braids and blades holstered to her boots flanked his right, and a man who was wide enough to put Paz to shame was flanking his left. There was an abrupt _tut-tut-tut_ sound from Cara as she eyed their leader.

“Look who’s come back,” she said, voice filled with faux-joy. Despite the recognition, her knuckles were still visibly white around her weapon. “If it isn’t our trusty fourth wheel.”

The leader grinned, unsettling Din instantly. 

“I see it didn’t take long for you to find a replacement,” he said, giving Din a brief look. The woman riding alongside him cooed tauntingly, “Aw, Mayfeld, I dare say he’s more handsome than _you_.”

 _This was their original guy? How did they even_ begin _to trust him?_ The man practically _radiated_ "bad guy." 

The man on Mayfeld’s other side grunted with amusement at the woman’s comment, while Mayfeld glared at her. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, now, Xi’an.”

Xi’an, the woman, giggled. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We know what we’re here for.”

Abruptly, the larger man snapped his heels into the sides of his horse, flying forward. He skidded a few feet in front of the coach, halting directly in their path. Woves quickly urged the wagon’s horses to cease, tugging back on their reins to prevent a collision. 

Xi’an moved so she was positioned directly in front of Cara, Mayfeld adjacent to Din. Cara and Woves glanced at each other briefly, a short and silent conversation occurring between them. Din was growing antsier by the second.

“Your damn _politician_ knows what he’s done,” Xi’an gritted out. She glared at the coach like her gaze was enough to burst it into flames. “Get him out. I just wanna talk,” she smirked.

Woves kept his eyes on the brute in the front, but he spoke to Mayfeld when he opened his mouth. “I’m seeing now why you turned so flakey on us at the last minute. Just your informants, huh?”

Mayfeld pouted. “Aw, what? Your feelings hurt?”

Woves shrugged. “Maybe. Although, not much to be hurt by, considering you’re just about as a good with a gun as you are at keeping your word.”

Mayfeld’s brow drew with agitation, no longer amused. He drew his gun, barrel facing one of the wagon’s windows. “Very funny. Now bring out the big man before I start guessing where he is in there.”

Xi’an hissed to him, “This is _my_ kill. Don’t ruin this for me, Migs.”

“ _Migs?_ ” Cara snorted. A sound of amusement also came from Woves. Mayfeld responded with a clipped growl, cocking the hammer of his gun. The laughter died quickly.

Din sat back in his saddle. “What’d he do?”

Eyes snapped to him. 

“What?” Xi’an scoffed. 

Din shrugged, but his fingers twitched anxiously. “What’s Karga owe you?”

Xi’an snarled, “My brother’s _life_. You gonna pay that back, pretty boy?”

“Your brother was a criminal, Miss,” came from within the coach. “I was only doing my duty.”

“You let a sonovabitch bounty hunter put him down like a dog!”

“ _I_ didn’t put the bullet in him.”

“ _You_ put up the bounty,” she growled. She reached for her boot, where her knives were holstered.

Din was about thirteen when he first killed someone. It was during one of the briefer times when him, Paz, and Auntie weren’t glued to each other’s hips. They had been staying within a tightly-packed town, almost like Trask, but a bit more breathable. Him and Paz were supposed to be pickpocketing but were busy getting lost in between buildings. Auntie had been doing the same, minus the latter, on the other side of town. They were supposed to reunite at a bench they had marked with a knife within three hours. 

It had been four.

Din had started getting antsier, while Paz insisted it would be fine and they would figure out where they were soon enough. He was four years older than Din and very much believed he was capable of taking the world in his hand, should he so decide to. Din was much the opposite, but that didn’t stop him from bumping heads just as hard as his brother did.

Sure enough, they began arguing about what to do. Din was set on backtracking and Paz was set on pushing forward. Eventually, they got a few shoves on each other, and went their separate ways after a few heated words — Paz forward, and Din backward.

If Din had to say Paz had rubbed off on him at all, he would pinpoint his own worsening stubbornness, because the moment he realized he still had no idea where he was or where he thought he was going, he huffed and kept moving. Until he got confronted by a strange man in a tattered uniform.

“I’m a veteran, boy,” he’d spat, “you got any consideration for veterans?”

“I got nothing,” Din defended, an answer he had used before for people who got too curious.

The man, however, was just as stubborn as he was. His nose wrinkled angrily, “Don’t lie to me, boy. I seen you purse-snatchin’ earlier.” He put a tight hand on Din’s shoulder, shoving him into the side of one of the buildings they were between. His other hand, reaching for Din’s vest pocket, was quickly pushed away by Din. The man stunk violently of alcohol.

“I said I got nothing!” and he jerked against the veteran, managing a few steps forward before he was pushed to the ground by a boot to his back. Din’s lungs emptied with the force of the hit, clothes now muddied. The same boot was then slotted between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground. 

“I fought for you, ya damn vermin,” he slurred, Din grunting as the pressure of the boot increased. “Pay up.” Din froze up as he recognized the sound of a gun’s hammer clicking. 

Din held his hands out, “Okay, okay! Just let me up, I’ll give you what I got.”

The old fool lifted his foot, and Din rolled onto his back, drawing his knife from his pocket. He sat up and stabbed it into the veteran’s knee, causing him to practically fold down to the ground, howling in pain. As Din pulled away, the man caught his wrist, lifting his gun. Din twisted in his hold and jammed his elbow into the veteran’s chest, heart racing. He heard the revolver clatter to the ground and he snatched it, stumbling up and aiming. 

“Goddamn slippery bastard,” the veteran wheezed, looking at Din from the ground. He glanced down at the knife still crammed beneath his knee cap, and Din cringed as the drunkard grabbed at the handle, yawping as he pulled it out. He panted and started forward, insistent on getting what he wanted.

Din fired between his eyes.

By the time he found Auntie and Paz at the bench, the moon was high. Paz instantly tore into him for taking so long, but Auntie, as she always did, instantly knew something was wrong. Din didn’t let himself cry, but he breathed real shaky-like until they were out of town. 

He remembered the mess and the look on the man’s face, violent and unwavering. Din hated the mess, hated the expression. So when he made the split decision to pull his old pistol from his hip, he aimed for Xi’an’s reaching hand.

Cara and Woves made no mistake, following suit. Cara shot Mayfeld’s shoulder and Woves got the brute in the head, only after having his left ear clipped by a poorly aimed bullet.

Din’s stallion whinnied at the firing, moving a few paces. Din brushed his fingers over his neck, hushing him gently. Xi’an was holding her hand, wailing with it to her chest. Mayfeld had about the same reaction to his own wound, gripping his shoulder with the hand previously holding his weapon. Cara jumped from the back of the wagon, Woves leaving the front to join her in manhandling the two off of their horses. 

When Din was sure his horse was calm enough, he slid off the saddle, gun still drawn. He followed behind them, watching Cara pull the blades from Xi’an’s boots and Woves kicking away Mayfeld’s gun. 

“Good shot,” Woves praised him, eliciting a hiss from Mayfeld as he jerked his arms behind him, holding his wrists together. Cara did the same with Xi’an, the woman crying out about her hand. Din nodded to Woves, “Just doing my job.”

Cara snorted, “Doing it well. Sorry I doubted you.” 

Din shrugged, but offered her a short smile. “What’ll you do with them?” 

“I believe our friend with Karga’s got rope on him. We’re close enough to town now, we could stick our politician in the front with you and Axe out here. Me and the other guy’ll keep an eye on these two in the coach,” Cara answered. As she spoke, the fourth guard joined them, sure enough pulling rope from his bag to keep Xi’an and Mayfeld from pulling any other stunts. Din watched as he tied their wrists, sawing off any excess. When he finished, he led them toward the coach, only after Karga had stepped out and pointedly smirked at Xi’an. 

Din jumped in a bit of surprise when he felt a hand clap his shoulder, Woves suddenly at his side. “Our new friend here was just as good as promised,” he said, nodding to Karga. 

“He may have saved my hide,” Cara admitted, “ _missy_ back there wasn’t exactly hesitating.”

Karga seemed pleased with this. “It was rather impressive shooting,” he praised, “but you’re still quite a mystery to us. No name, come out of nowhere looking for work, all quiet-like. Are you a gunslinger?”

Din shook his head, “I just know my way around a weapon.”

Karga laughed a bit, seemingly amused. “I’d say so. I’d ask you to stick around a bit longer, but you don’t quite seem the type to stay in one place.”

Karga and Woves walked to the front of the wagon. As they were stepping away, Din turned to find Cara facing him. 

“Seriously. Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time.”

“You weren’t too mean,” Din smiled a bit, “besides — nothing wrong with being careful. Look how Mayfeld turned out.” They glanced back at the coach, where they could see Mayfeld and Xi’an arguing within it. Cara sighed, surely regretting her decision to sit with them the next five miles back to Nevarro. “No kidding,” she huffed.

“What’ll we do with their horses?” Din asked. The trio’s mares were standing idly by, still a bit antsy after the rounds of gunfire. Xi’an’s had a bit of blood spattered across the saddle skirt from when her hand had been shot. 

Cara shrugged, “Take them to a stable or a farmer. Someone could use ‘em. You need any help leading them?” 

Din nodded, “If you don’t mind.” 

Cara rode on Mayfeld’s mare, leading Xi’an’s, while Din led the brute’s horse. Woves and Karga sat at the front of the wagon, Karga holding the reins after having convinced the guard to clean that clipped ear of his. The sun settled beneath the Earth by the time they made it into Nevarro, sky dark and starry. The town was quiet, only a few people wandering about so late at night. Street lamps were scattered about the town, seemingly a new installment within it. Cara and Din separated from the other three to take the mares to a stable on the other side of town, Woves and the others heading to the police station to lock up Mayfeld and Xi’an. 

Once the horses were taken care of, Cara left without a mount, Din made the decision to lead his stallion while he walked, Cara alongside him. It was a good excuse to stretch his legs after spending so long in the saddle, even despite the brief shootout. The air was still a bit stuffy, making Din’s hair stick to his forehead and his clothes to his skin, but it was good to have the sun off of his back. On top of it all, the new boots he wore were well-fitting, softly padding in the dirt as he and Cara walked through the street.

“I have to ask,” Cara began, voice breaking the sound of crickets and occasional breezes. “Where did you get that necklace?” Her curious grin was enough to soften Din’s hesitance, the silver of the mythosaur gleaming gently under the moonlight. It would have been hard to miss. 

“The woman who raised me,” he answered after a moment. “It was her’s. She gave it to me.”

Cara’s brows raised, but she only hummed thoughtfully. “That was… nice of her. Is she…?”

Though Din’s chest clenched at the idea, he gratefully shook his head. “No, no. It was a gift. She wanted me to have it before I left home.”

“Ah, okay,” Cara gave a curt nod. Silence followed, though a bit more awkward than it had been before. 

“How long have you been working for Karga?” Din asked, itched by the quiet. Cara met his eyes thankfully, seemingly just as happy to have the quiet broken once more.

“About a year or so. I did bounty hunting for a while, but competition was getting stiff. Especially with that,” she snorted, waving a hand around as if it would bring whatever words she was trying to find. She eventually snapped her fingers, Din cocking a brow in response. “ _Fett_ ,” she said, having found what she was looking for. “He’s a goddamn bastard, been in the business for _years._ I always heard about him before I got into hunting and figured he couldn’t be _that_ bad. Sure as hell ate my words. If a bounty’s got his name on it, it’s his.”

“Huh,” Din nodded, as though he understood.

Cara shoved him on the shoulder, much like she had with Woves back in Trask. “Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”

When Din blinked at her, she laughed sharply, the sound echoing a bit through the empty streets. Din’s stallion snorted beside him. 

“You _are_ a goddamn mystery. Where have you been for the past twenty years?”

 _Choked in a mineshaft. Sitting on my ass. Letting my family down._ The abrupt onslaught of thoughts made Din visibly flinch, which Cara took notice of. 

“‘Just a drifter,’ right. Sorry,” she held her hands up apologetically. Din scrubbed his free hand through a patch of hair on his jaw, a bit of embarrassment gliding hot over his back, joining the already-sticky heat of the air gluing his shirt to his skin. 

Another bout of uncomfortable silence drifted between them. Fortunately, Karga’s office was coming into view. Soon enough, Din would be out of town and back to aimlessly crossing the lands for his brother. It had been about two months now - how long was it going to take to find Paz?

 _It may take years,_ Auntie’s voice rang again. Din audibly sighed through his nose, trying to reel himself back. He needed to be more patient. 

“Have you…” he started, disrupting the space once more. Cara glanced at him expectantly as he struggled to find the words. “Has anyone passed through town? Like, just briefly or stayed or anything?”

Cara _hmm_ ’d, “Since when? We get quite a few drifters.”

Din was warming with embarrassment again. “He’s real big,” he told her instead. “Big, tall guy. I’m, uh, looking for. Dark hair, dark eyes. Stubborn.” 

She definitely noticed his avoidance, but gave the description thought. “Maybe? Got a name?”

“Paz,” he answered, hopeful. Cara considered it for a moment. “Big guy named Paz, huh? ...Not in Nevarro, no.”

Din stopped walking. His stallion whinnied softly behind him, apparently having been enjoying the stroll. “Where then?” he questioned, heart suddenly rising to his throat. 

“Quite a few years back, in a village called Sorgan. I didn’t meet him, but knew a man who talked about this real big guy who had stopped by, stayed there for a few days in his home. If he’s still living there, he might know where he's gone.”

Din nodded anxiously as she spoke. “Who?” 

“Man named Deht. He’s friendly, if it means anything,” she says, “unless your Paz guy is some sort of trouble?”

Din hesitated, replying slowly. “He’s… my brother.”

Cara tilted her head to the side, looking a bit confused. “You’re broad but _you’re_ not nearly as big as you make him out to be.”

Din, alight with the information, found himself chuckling in response to her comment. “Not by blood. We were just raised together.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “I’m glad to be of use then. It’s the least I can do after you stopped Mayfeld’s little friend from knifing me to death.” 

Din chuckled again, and the two resumed their walk. 

Din would stay the night in Nevarro. Upon leaving Karga's office, he shared a brief farewell with Cara and Woves, the two regarding him pleasantly, insisting he needn’t be afraid to stop by if he were ever in town again. When he woke the next morning, his blood was still rushing with the idea of being even a bit closer to finding Paz. Cara had said it’d been some time, but this was his first real lead.

As Din rode back out into the plains, Sorgan marked on the map he'd bought, the sunrise and a surprisingly cool, morning breeze caressed him. He sighed into it, shoulders loosening further into the cant of his stallion's trot. 

It had been two months, and now he had something. This was better than he could have hoped. 

Until it wasn't.

That's not to say the information didn't get him _nowhere_. 

Sorgan's sheriff didn't had his feet kicked up on his desk, arms crossed, and brow drawn. When Din asked about the man Cara spoke of, the only response he got was, "You a bounty hunter?"

Din hesitated. There was an off chance that maybe this Deht guy had turned into a real bastard in the time Cara hadn't seen him. Or maybe they were protecting him for what he'd done? 

"What's it to you?" He landed on.

The officer stared at him, then grunted a short laugh. He removed his feet from the desk and stood, stretching in place before slowly crossing the room to a board covered in portraits. He reached for one with a woman's photo, grainy and dark. It appeared to have been torn out of its original source. 

"This lady, right here," he tapped on her face, which was smiling gently in Din's direction. Din squinted at her. The sheriff continued, "Killed three of my men. She was last seen headed into Hoth territory."

Din broke his gaze from her, meeting the officer's steely eyes. "The mountains?"

He nodded, "Makin' a real run for it." He handed the picture to Din, hands landing at his hips. Din held it, stared again briefly, and then looked back at the officer. 

"What does this have to do with my guy?" Din asked carefully. 

The sheriff sniffed and pawed at his nose. "You find her, bring her back alive, and I'll contact your guy. He's out of town right now, but I know where to find him. She has been evading _justice_ for far too long."

Something was off. Maybe it was the way the sheriff stood so casually, maybe how his lip drew before he found the word _justice,_ like it was only somewhat close to something… else. Din couldn't put his finger on it. 

But if this Deht really knew Paz, had him in his home, talked to him, maybe even got his stubborn ass to laugh once or twice… did Din really have a choice? 

"She's wanted for murder and you got a picture but not a name?" Din raised a brow. The officer at least had the decency to look embarrassed over that, scuffing his boot on the floor. 

"Unfortunately not. She, ah, wasn't from 'round here. Came through lookin' to trick good folk into givin' up their earnings for useless things. Didn't like it when we told her to get out of our town. _My_ town."

Din nodded along, still a bit unsure. "And you can get a hold of Deht should I come back with her alive?"

The officer grinned, "Sure as sunshine, partner."

"Then I'll have her."

As Din walked out the door, he heard the sheriff call to him, the grin still evident in his voice, "Look out for other hunters! And I hope you got some better snow shoes!"

Din sighed. 

Din had only ever been _near_ Hoth once. Auntie had been very set in staying out of the mountains, especially considering that during the time their little family got close to them, they were looking more into settling down than they were into adventuring. 

The ride alone to Sorgan had taken the first half of the day, giving the sun time to settle a bit lower into the sky. As Din and his stallion crawled their way up into the ice-capped territory, the sky got a bit darker, really only lit up by whatever reflections managed to capture the snow. Despite the cold wind and the increasingly tired whinnies from his horse, Din was grateful for the lack of flakes falling. He was even more grateful for the sight of cabins coming into view, not too far off, hidden between a few pine trees and a sloping hill.

When he got close enough, Din clambered out of his saddle, hips aching with the distance. His stallion definitely appreciated the break, snuffing relieved clouds of steam into the space around them. 

The snow came up to Din’s ankles, to which he frowned. He walked carefully, leading his horse into the small settlement. There were only three cabins and a small stable, but it appeared entirely empty. And Din would assume it was, if not for the multiple sets of tracks in the snow. There appeared to be hoofprints too, the narrowly shaped breaks in the ground accompanying some of the larger ones. Din edged a bit closer to the stable, hearing a soft nicker. He found the door and cracked it open just a bit.

Sure enough, a horse _was_ in there. It was stood by a bale of hay, chewing lazily in the dark. From what Din could see, there wasn’t anyone in there with it. 

_Must be in one of those cabins,_ he figured.

Din’s stallion abruptly let out a short squeal and Din grunted as it shouldered into him, knocking him against the side of the stable. He blinked a few times, feeling the reins slip from his hand. 

“Hey!” he shouted, watching his horse scamper a few feet away, spooked. As he moved to go after him, he was suddenly shoved back again, a gloved hand centered on his chest and a gun’s barrel in his face. 

The man in front of him snarled, “Who the hell are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback is appreciated!


	3. Wandering in the night, what were the chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boba takes the bounty that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chaptah! Woo. Title is from "Strangers in the Night" by Frank Sinatra :D

The man in front of him spluttered nervously, practically launching up from his seat. He’d been sitting tipped back, the chair now clattering noisily to the ground. “What’re  _ you  _ doing here?!”

Boba raised a brow, regarding him bemusedly. He glanced around the small office, eyes landing on the bounty board. He stalked over to it, ignoring the antsy sheriff behind him. He heard a few more flustered breaths come from the man as he eyed the scattered posters; he hadn’t expected there to be much, considering how remote Sorgan was, but there was never any harm in looking. 

“You’re uh, you lookin’ to hunt?” The sheriff asked. Boba grunted back, taking in the assortment of faces plastered to the wall. His eyes caught two photos of the same woman stuck next to each other, absent of writing or a reward. He plucked one off and turned it around, the back just as blank. 

The sheriff awkwardly shifted closer to him, still leaving a reasonable amount of space between them. “Ah, that uh, that one huh?”

“How much for the job?”

“Two hundred. Alive.”

Boba hummed softly, taking in the woman’s features. He pocketed the picture, meeting the sheriff’s anxious expression. The sheriff continued, “She was last seen headed into Hoth, up in the mountains. Only put the damn thing up a day or two ago, so there’s a good chance she’s still in there.”

Boba nodded, turning on his heel, spurs jingling softly. The sheriff was still blabbering about something or other as Boba left, catching his mare's reins in his gloved fist as he walked away. She followed close to his side, huffing softly. 

Sorgan's villagers, like every other person he had ever passed by, eyed him wearily. Boba's skin turned warm with discomfort under the attention, a sort of heat that he used to lean into and grin with, having enjoyed the fear that swallowed up everyone around him. Maybe a few years ago he would have reminded himself that fear was the best thing he could demand after respect, but now-a-days he just tipped his hat a bit further over his eyes. 

He made his way to a small stand, an old woman standing idly behind it. She looked up at him with timid eyes, Boba only silently gesturing to the carrots and apples she had displayed. She carefully picked them up, croaking out the price. Boba tried to ignore the flinch that flashed across her face when he reached in his jacket to dig out a dollar. 

With the food in his hand, he slipped a carrot to his mare, who nickered gratefully, tail swishing behind her. Boba placed the rest in the saddle bag furthest from his guns before hooking a foot in the stirrup and lifting himself onto her back.

"Lovely horse," the saleswoman said, so soft and creaky that Boba almost missed it. He tried to keep the shock from his face as he turned his head to her. 

He nodded, "Sure is. Thank you."

Boba gathered his reins in one hand, readying himself to get re-introduced to the hours of trotting ahead, when she spoke up again. 

"Are you a traveller?"

Boba paused, gentle surprise moving through him. She didn't recognize him. 

He shrugged, "You could say that.

She then offered a small smile, strangely enough. “Safe travels, then. Don’t be afraid to pass through here again — we could use the business.”

There was something off in her tone that Boba couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was the subtle pleading, or the way she flinched before despite unrecognizing him. Maybe it was all rooted in the way she looked up at him, hidden desperation there. There was something incredibly abnormal about the village that he’d originally brushed off as his own reputation, the way people were so avoidant but still curious, and he couldn’t help but wonder back to the sheriff’s jumpy behavior.

“I’ll be back,” he promised her. He was, after all, a bounty hunter. Every bounty he had been offered he had received the reward for, and this nameless woman would be no different. 

This promise seemed to ease the saleswoman, and she suddenly looked so  _ hopefully  _ at him. It was an achingly off-putting gaze to be put under. Boba could only nod at her again and nudge his mare’s side, focusing on the jagged blue outlines of Hoth in the far distance, desperate in escaping that soulful stare of hope and put off by the assumption that he was some divine lawbringer. He was only a bounty hunter.

When he reached deep into the mountains of Hoth, a storm was still working its way on clearing up. Snowflakes were pelting his face, breaths coming out in thick clouds and being quickly blown from sight. His mare was neighing here and there, similarly to her rider, not a fan of the cold. It was hard to get an exact idea of where the bounty could be specifically, but the snowy corpse of a dead wolf he’d found about a mile back was a good start. It had to be at least a day old, and assuming the bounty was injured, she couldn’t have gotten far. The answer to that was given when he found a few cabins and a stable burrowed between hills and pines, almost hidden. 

Sure enough, upon making his way in the small clearing, he found one of the cabins lit up from inside, a horse standing in front of it and scraping at the snow with its hoof. A woman emerged from within the cabin, hidden beneath a hood. She had someone else with her who he couldn’t make out, but when she caught sight of him, they were both clambering anxiously into the saddle. There was no doubt it was her. 

Boba urged the spur of his boot into his mare’s side, a responding snort coming from her as she turned her trot into a run. The bounty’s horse was quickly fleeing through the other side of the clearing, snow flying around them. Boba’s mare wasn’t too far behind, the shape of the woman clear to him despite the flakes still swirling through the air. 

He reached for his hip, grasping at his pistol. He recalled the sheriff’s claim,  _ alive _ , and lifted, pulling back the hammer and focusing on her horse’s thigh. 

A shot rang through the valley, Boba instantly losing grip of his gun as a bullet was lodged into the back of his left shoulder. He hissed in pain, wincing as he twisted in his saddle to try and spot where the gunfire originated. Someone else was in the mountains, protecting the bounty.  _ Where? _

Just as he caught the shape of a mounted horse upon one of the peaks, his mare’s footing caught a wedge in the ground, her hoof burying into the mud beneath the snow and tripping her. Boba was sent out of the saddle, all of his breath escaping his lungs as he was thrown face-down into the snow. 

Boba’s shoulder  _ pulsed _ , the pain sending his eyes tightly shut. His body now ached all over, head pounding and blood rushing with the adrenaline of the chase and the panic of being thrown. His vision was spinning, air coming from him in short bursts as he tried to regain a semblance of comfort. Distantly, he heard snow-trodden hooves fade off, joined by another pair. The bounty and her assistance were escaping.

Boba grit his teeth and forced himself up, a hand holding his shoulder. He could feel the back of his coat dampening, the sharp bite of the wind slipping through the bullethole in the material and beneath his clothes. He shivered as he stumbled to his feet, pawing away the snow that covered his face and his front. He found his mare laid on the ground, heaving tiredly. He knelt by her, cursing when he found her front foot bent a bit awkwardly. As he urged her up, she kept her weight off of the foot, and he was sure it was sprained. He gazed out in the direction of the hoofprints disappearing into the valley, the shadows of two horses simmering off into the flakes and fog.

He had experienced setbacks before. This would be no different.

Boba sighed and reached for his mare’s reins, closing his eyes against the pain spreading throughout his body, sharpest within his shoulder. He led her back in the direction they had come from, figuring the little settlement his best bet for shelter.

By the time he made it back to the clearing, he was finding himself more and more tired. He pushed on, leading his horse into the stable across from the cabins. Inside, he looked over her foot again and used what he had of his supplies to wrap it, compressing it enough to relieve pressure from the injury. He dragged a hay bale from the side of the barn to the stall she had taken on, his shoulder complaining all the while. When he was sure she would make it alright, he left the stable and made his way to the still-lit cabin. Once inside, he came to terms with his progressively foggying vision and began to pull off the layers he had covered himself with. He frowned when he found the back side of his coat much bloodier than he’d thought. 

As Boba reached to tug his gloves off, he stopped at the sound of a breathy snort echoing from outside, far too loud to have come from within the stable. He quickly reached to dim the oil lamp sat atop the iron stove, peeking through the window. 

A man had wandered into the settlement, glancing about. Boba couldn’t quite make out his face, even despite the faded storm. He blamed his exhaustion and cursed under his breath. He grit his teeth through the pain in his shoulder as he shrugged his coat back on and reached for the pistol he’d dug out of the snow earlier, trying his damndest to keep his exit from the cabin somewhat quiet. The stranger’s curious head ducking into the stable made this effort easier. 

As Boba stalked over, his vision fuzzed again, and he stumbled, knocking the stranger’s horse in the rear with his gun and surprising it, the damn thing squealing as it shouldered past its rider and knocked him into the stable, skittering away. Boba forced himself to keep on and used the opportunity to pin the man with his uninjured arm, weakly lifting his gun with the other. 

Wide-eyed browns stared at him through wisps of dark hair, and Boba only managed out a snarl through the pain in his body. 

“Who the hell are you?”

The man blinked unsurely and opened his mouth to reply, but then Boba’s gun fell from his hand again and he was drifting to the ground and into blackness. 

When Boba regained consciousness, his vision was still somewhat muddled. More noticeably, he was back inside and  _ damn cold _ , seeing as his coat and shirt had been removed. He was on his stomach on one of those cabin's beds, could feel the sheets against his skin, and blinked hard as he tried to sit up. 

Instantly, he was met with two things:  _ pain,  _ flaring through his left shoulder and tingling though the rest of his sore body. Second, a warm hand pressing against his back and pushing him back down. The feeling caused him to jerk and stiffen, even as he allowed it. 

"What—?" he choked out. 

A low voice rasped back, "You were shot. I removed the bullet, but I'm not done yet. Stay down." Even despite the demand, it was gentle. Boba squinted against the bedsheets. 

_ What?  _ He almost asked again. 

He turned his head and peered through the side of his eyes, catching the source of the touch and warm voice. It was the man he had — well,  _ tried  _ to — threaten. He was illuminated by the orange light of the oil lamp, dark eyes focused on the needle he was trying to work a thread through. Beside him on the bed, Boba spotted a thin and bloodied knife, a cloth and a bullet. At least he was out for that part.

This was  _ not _ good, though. The man was probably going to fix him up and then threaten his life for money or try to convince Boba he owed him something in exchange. Boba decided he could at least wait until the man finished the stitches in his shoulder to reach for the gunbelt hung over the bed frame. 

"What happened?" The man asked, Boba wincing as he felt the needle make its first pierce into his skin.

Boba responded after a moment or two, "The bounty I was after had a friend. My horse sprained her ankle so I had to stop." He debated whether or not the last bit about his horse was wise of him to share, falling on possibly stealing the man's horse after he dealt with him. 

Above him, he felt the hands pause, resting on his back for a moment. The sensation of skin was strange. What if he had changed his mind about helping Boba? Maybe he'd start his threat halfway through the stitches? 

"Who were you hunting?" 

Boba turned his head a bit to look at him, wondering if his confusion was as clear across his face as it was in his head. 

The man continued, "I was directed up here for a bounty."

Boba sighed.  _ Of course.  _ "Sorgan?"

The man's face fell and he nodded. Boba asked, "How many pictures of the woman were up when you got there?"

"One."

Boba sighed again. He shifted his right arm and reached under himself, feeling the man's hands move from his back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photo of the bounty he had taken earlier that day, resting his elbow on the mattress and holding it up for the man to see. 

"That sheriff wants you dead," he told him. 

It wasn't the first time he had competed with others for bounties. It had been more common when he was younger and still making a name for himself. As he got older, however, it was known that the moment he got his hands on a bounty that it was Boba Fett's hunt. In the height of his own angst, he sometimes found it a sport of taking out his competition, something to make others understand that  _ Fett _ was not a force to be reckoned with. He allowed himself some guilt over it now, years later, when instances like these were very far and few between. Whatever spite the sheriff held for the man was enough for him to figure Boba was the next best solution without outright killing the man himself. 

"...What?" The man rasped out. His expression was  _ shocked _ . Like he could hardly believe such a thing. Boba felt bad for wanting to laugh, and then his heart stopped as he thought of the saleswoman back in Sorgan. 

"Don't… Don't you know who I am?" he asked, peeking up at the man from the corner of his eye. Maybe he hadn't gotten a good enough look at Boba? 

The man's brows furrowed together, dark eyes looking intently now at Boba's face. Surely he would realize any second now, right? Would widen his eyes, skitter away, or use the knife he removed the bullet with to stab him? He was a bounty hunter, too. How couldn’t he know of  _ Fett? _

Instead of doing any of those things, he huffed, "Am I supposed to?" As though Boba were ridiculous. 

And, well. Maybe it was his lucky day. Some stranger finds him in the mountains and just decides to help him. Some saleswoman looks up at him like he's a beacon of hope. All Boba could do was try not to grin at the man's frustration with the question, clearly uncaring of whoever was in front of him. 

"No. No, I guess not," Boba told him, and damn it, he couldn't help but  _ smirk. _

The man, evidently with no clear understanding of the situation he was in, huffed again and got back to sewing Boba's wound shut. 

Boba, now feeling a bit generous, informed him, "The sheriff was probably hoping I'd realize we were hunting the same bounty and I’d kill you.”

A soft sound of indignation came from the man, who pulled the next stitch (what had to be) purposefully tight, “Is that something you usually do?”

“Used to,” he said honestly, “not really a problem I’ve had too often.” He couldn’t think of a reason as to why the sheriff would want the man dead. Who the hell just decided to help some shot mongrel who threatens you with a gun? Especially when that shot mongrel was  _ Boba Fett? _ “What’d you do to spite the sheriff?” he found himself asking.

“Only asked about a guy,” he replied. “I was given the bounty in trade for information instead of money.”

“It was  _ offered? _ ”

“...Yes.”

Boba tried to glance at him, “He  _ really  _ wants you dead.”

The man’s jaw visibly tightened, Boba’s teeth gritting as the next stab of the needle was a tad more aggressive. Either he was lying when he said he didn’t recognize Boba or he was feeling real testy. Boba didn’t know which was worse, considering either way, he was still letting the man keep him in such a vulnerable spot. 

The rest of the man’s work went on in silence, Boba’s eyes still wandering to the gunbelt occasionally, just to be sure. His revolver was barely teetering over the frame, grip easily accessible from where it jutted out of the holster. It might hurt his shoulder, but he would be able to grab it real quick. 

He tensed as the man grabbed the knife off of the bed, still as he felt the thread of the stitches wiggle back and forth before the pressure was gone, the knife being set back down and a bit of string with it. The man was only cutting away the excess. 

Boba sat up, leveraging himself with his right hand and easing himself with his back to the wall. He winced as his left shoulder brushed against it, keeping the weight to the other side of his body and tipping his head back. His fingers itched for the gun glinting in the corner of his eye.  _ Just in case. _

“I need that bounty,” the man spoke up. Boba turned his eyes to him, surprised to see such determination set in the man’s face. Now that he wasn’t on his back, Boba was able to get a better look at him — see the scruffy beard across his face, scrunch in his brow, the slight pull to his lips. He couldn’t be much younger than Boba, maybe even the same age. His eyes were far too tired.

“Whatever information that sheriff promised you isn’t good,” Boba told him honestly. Though Boba was prepared should he try, the man hadn’t killed him yet. Boba could be frank with him. 

He frowned, evidently unhappy with the fact. “I have to take the chance it might be,” he persisted. 

Boba stared at him for a moment. He wondered back to the other hunters he had killed for sake of  _ name _ . About how angry he’d been. Thought about how the man had been looking at him dead-on for a while now and hadn’t made any risky moves. How Boba threatened him and the man still took care of him despite it. God, he  _ took care of him _ . 

Suddenly, Boba couldn’t meet his eyes, but he still replied, “You fixed me up. The bounty’s yours.”

The man nodded, expression lightening up considerably. Boba leaned his head back against the wall and scrubbed at his neck with his hand. If this man was really as honest as he was looking to be, he’d be gone by morning. Maybe he’d leave now, after giving a piece of his kindness. Boba wondered what he would have done if he’d been told no — if he would have undone the stitches in Boba’s shoulder and taken Boba’s own gun to his head. Maybe he would have accepted defeat out of fear and Boba would have continued on his way when his horse’s ankle recovered. He wasn’t sure what was most likely, only knew that the man had shown his gratitude and that Boba wouldn’t ever see him again. Damned if he wouldn’t think of the goddamn bounty hunter who couldn’t give a shit who he was and looked at him like he was stupid when he asked, though. 

“You aren’t… you aren’t going to get real far with that horse of yours,” the man said. Boba’s head came off the wall, brow furrowing. He continued, “I saw its foot and you told me it was sprained.”

Boba was suddenly itching for his gun again.  _ Where are you going with this? _

“You’re, you’re wounded too,” the man went on, “You aimed with your left hand earlier. I’m assuming that’s your dominant? Hard to shoot with a hurt shoulder, I’d assume. Not impossible, but definitely hard.”

“The hell are you getting at?”

“I don’t want the reward, and I figure you do. That, and like I said, you’re shot and your horse is hurt. I wouldn’t feel right leaving you here like that.”

_ What? _

Apparently he’d said the baffled thought aloud, because the man spoke again, as if to hammer the nail on the head. “We could hunt together. You get your money, I get my info. Deal?” he said it so  _ casually _ , like he didn’t tell  _ Boba Fett  _ he’d feel  _ guilty  _ for letting him on his own. Boba was barely grasping the idea, abruptly flustered over the insistence. It couldn’t be this easy, could it? Couldn’t be so simple to have someone look at him like they didn’t assume they already knew who he was?

To be sure, Boba stuck out a hand. The man took it without hesitance. 

“Deal?” the man repeated. 

“Boba,” he introduced. The man blinked at him for a moment, and Boba started to  _ cringe _ , started to wait for the recognition. Maybe he just didn’t know the face, knew that name. Was the lack of a last name enough to keep him unknowing? Was it really that  _ simple? _

Then their hands were shaking between them.

“Din,” said the man. 

_ Din.  _ He was smiling a bit, eyebrows lifted and eyes open with ambition, palm warm against Boba’s. It was that easy.

“Deal,” Boba told him, unaware of his own grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Person: *is nice to Boba*  
> Boba: ???what
> 
> Any and all feedback highly appreciated - comments are most certainly my favorite ;) Any notes on characterization are HIGHLY welcomed! I've never written either of these guys before!!


	4. Someone to be kind to in between the dark and the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting out of Hoth, Din and Boba make an important discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "One of These Nights" by the Eagles! Hope you enjoy (:

Boba was interesting, to put simply.

The following morning when he and Din readied their horses and made the decision to travel by foot, because of Boba’s mare being injured, he kept on glancing at Din every now then, as though he were expecting something of him. Even as they presently trudged through the snowy valleys between the towering mountains, he would catch Boba side-eyeing him now and again. 

The decision to travel with him was, admittedly, a bit selfish. Din hadn’t been by himself since he was ten, always accompanied by Auntie or Paz, and for the past two months he was alone. It was easy in some senses, only having to look out for himself despite the worry for Auntie in the back of his mind, but now and then he would untuck the mythosaur from within his shirt and stare at it, aching to see Auntie across from him at every makeshift camp or hotel he had slept in. It was lonely. Stumbling across Boba in the mountains was startling at first, considering he had waved a gun around in Din’s face, but then he was calm and helpful, and clearly capable despite his injury. Din didn’t miss the surplus of weapons stashed across Boba’s mare when he had gotten a better look at her in the stable, as well as the weight of Boba’s gunbelt and the knife holstered on the side of his boot. Din may have been more threatened if Boba didn’t act oddly toward him, so clearly baffled that Din didn’t know who he was and glancing at Din every few minutes like he was some sort of savior. He couldn’t understand what the deal was, but the company was nice, even if Boba was a weapon-jockey with an easy appreciation for people who know how to sew skin shut.

With that, Din also couldn’t stop wandering back to the situation with the sheriff, and Boba’s insistence that the sheriff wanted him dead. He couldn’t understand _why_ , why the sheriff would lie or what reason he could have for wanting Din out of the picture. Maybe Cara’s contact really wasn’t a good person? Maybe _Cara_ was lying? 

The whirlwind of thoughts came to a quick halt as Din almost ran into the rear of Boba’s mare, stopping him where he trailed behind the other man. He looked on to see why they’d stopped, frowning at the sight of the large frozen pond ahead. The valley all sloped down into it, the body of water at the center. Sure enough, the tracks left behind by the bounty and her assistance trailed through the thin layer of snow atop the ice. That at least suggested it was somewhat safe to cross, especially considering that they were probably mounted on their horses at the time.

Boba’s mare, however, had a sprained foot. Ice wasn’t exactly a promising sight.

“You think she’s okay to cross?” Din asked, stepping beside Boba. They both gazed out at the ice, Din turning to look back at him as Boba assessed it. Boba’s brow twitched, the scar trailing through his right brow and into his hairline subtly moving with it. Din grimaced at the thought of how he must have received the scar. 

“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” Boba replied, staring out at the sloping mountainsides. Din nodded, “Take it easy then.”

Din let Boba go first, watching him take a few tentative steps forward, the ice tittering beneath his boots. His mare nickered anxiously behind him, following onto the ice. She shifted awkwardly, her limping canter already offset. She seemed to be managing alright though, and Din eventually joined them once they’d made it a few paces forward. His stallion was very obviously unsituated, snorting as his hooves slid a bit every few steps. Din softly urged him to be easy, patting him on the neck. Boba’s mare, limping, was still doing better. _How about that._

“The ice is thinner on the other side,” Boba warned him from ahead as they neared land. “I think one of their horses broke the ice up here. There’s a hole.”

Din followed a bit more carefully, urging his stallion a bit more. As Boba made it off of the pond, Din tried to find the hole, breath coming out in a sharp gasp as he failed to pay attention to his footing and slipped to the ground. 

His stallion neighed with distress, Din cursing as the horse tried to edge away, a crackling sound rumbling from the ice. Boba turned as the sound came, he and Din meeting wide-eyed as a fracture crawled across the pond. 

“Shit,” Boba breathed. 

“My horse,” Din said, “get him off the ice, I’ll figure something out.” 

“How about we get you off first and then we worry about your horse,” Boba grunted. His brow was furrowed at Din’s suggestion.

“We’re gonna need at least _one_ good horse, damn it,” Din insisted. Boba sighed and carefully came back on the ice, reaching for the reins of Din’s stallion. Din watched him get a hold of them, Boba murmuring to him calmly. His stallion, thankfully, listened and Boba got him off of the last bits of the pond, ice moaning beneath the weight of them both. 

Din, all the while, began inching forward, carefully scooching across the ice. When Boba turned around to help him, a surprised laugh broke out of him. 

“The hell are you doing?”

“Trying to not break the ice,” Din huffed back, gingerly making his way closer to land, heart rate spiking with each crackle in the frozen water beneath him. Boba watched, clearly amused, as Din made an effort to climb to his feet and step into the snow, leaving the ice behind. Din swiped away the bit of ice and snow covering his backside, feeling Boba’s eyes on him all the while. 

He looked up to see a very entertained expression over Boba’s face, brow cocked and lips pulled to a curve at one corner. Din, even with the bits of apprehension still burrowed within him, made the decision to shove Boba’s right shoulder. All he got back was a snort of amusement.

It took another hour or so for them to get out of Hoth and for the snow to fade off into grass and trees, sun flowing out from the clouds and finding them as they crossed the only trail coming out of the mountains. Boba had told Din there was a trading town a few miles out, most likely their best bet for where the bounty had run off to. As the air grew warmer the further they got from Hoth, they started shucking off their coats, letting the breeze cool them. With the layers off, Din realized that Boba was wearing the same shirt he’d been shot in, blood stain just barely visible on the shoulder sleeve beneath his vest. 

“That’s it,” Boba announced as they reached the top of the trail they’d been on. The town was reasonably small, though a considerable amount of shops were posted around and cluttering the town. It was a bit cleared in the center where a railroad ran straight through, station nearby. A train sat center on it, few passengers steadily streaming on into it. Din was reminded vaguely of Trask, thankful that this town was at least different in the sense that it wasn’t _nearly_ as swamp-like. 

They made their way into the town, the dirt trail melting into a wide path through the town. Din’s nose scrunched at the smell of animal manure as they passed the widely-fenced pens, crossing behind the train and over its tracks. Din caught a whiff of coal as they passed the train, turning to see a few carts attached at the very tail-end. He could instantly recall the humid caves of the mines back home, all the cars they would fill with what they’d pickaxed out of the ground, the taste of sweat and dirt inescapable. He grimaced and huffed out a quick breath to get the smell out, turning back to focus on the contents of the town.

With his attention back along the road, Din began realizing just how many people were wearily eyeing him and Boba. He figured they were probably nosy, especially considering Boba’s horse was both injured and littered with weapons — and that that was an accurate description for Boba as well, considering the multitude of guns and knives hanging from his belt and holstered along his body. Din tried not to roll his eyes and ignored the odd heat of the attention, used to being overlooked for the past few months. 

“I’m headed to the stable,” Boba told him as they walked. Din nodded, “I’ll start taking a look around town.”

They split from there, Boba moving off toward the barn down the right. Din kept forward, his stallion alongside him. He spotted a building with STORE scrawled across a sign in bold letters and made the decision to stop by, hitching his horse outside. He clambered up the steps of it and gently elbowed the door open, met with an assortment of shelves and racks. The shopkeeper at the back greeted him from behind the counter.

“Ain’t seen you before,” the shopkeeper smiled, “new in town?”

“Passing through,” Din nodded back, giving a short smile. He found an open closet toward the left, an assortment of pants, vests, coats, and shirts on display. He shuffled through them curiously.

“Where’d you come from?” The shopkeeper asked.

“Hoth,” Din answered, plucking out a black button-up. He held up one of the sleeves to his arm to compare.

The shopkeeper whistled, “The mountains? Long ways from here, partner.”

Din nodded, “Sure is.” He folded the shirt and stepped over to the counter, setting it down. He took a quick gander at the little paper tag stuck to its collar and reached into his pocket. The shopkeeper rung up the register, Din getting a handle on a dollar and the picture in his pants. He set the picture down by the shirt as the shopkeeper took the bill.

“You seen this woman at all?” he asked.

The shopkeeper hummed in thought, glancing back and forth between the picture and the register as he placed the money in it. He shook his head after a moment, “Sorry to say I haven’t. Are you a bounty hunter or something?”

Din hesitated before eventually shrugging a shoulder, “Could say that.”

This got a bit of a chuckle from the shopkeeper, Din taking the picture off of the counter and slipping it back into his pocket. 

“Well, if you are,” the shopkeeper said to him, leaning over the counter, “you might have competition, I’m afraid.”

Din raised a brow at him. The shopkeeper continued, “I heard Fennec Shand came into town last night.”

Din didn’t have the first clue who that was, but nodded anyways. It was easy enough to assume they must be a big-time bounty hunter, considering how the shopkeeper was looking at him. “Last night?”

The shopkeeper nodded, “I heard she had company.”

“Did she now?”

“I didn’t see who, only heard. I’d say stop by the saloon to see if she’s still in town. People in ‘round here like to think they can hide how much they love to gossip, but they don’t get shy when the drinks are flowing.” The shopkeeper winked at him and leaned away from the counter, “Good luck, stranger.”

Din gave a curt nod after a moment, “Thanks.” Taking the shirt from the counter, he stepped out of the shop and glanced around at the signs lining the tops of buildings. The saloon was down the street, almost hidden around the corner. Din placed the folded shirt in one of his emptier saddlebags, gave his stallion a quick pat, and started down the street.

The saloon was considerably full for the afternoon, the sound of cards shuffling in the corner and drinks clinking against tabletops filling the room. The conversation was moderately loud, people barely noticing Din’s entrance. _This_ felt a bit more like every place he had passed through.

Din walked over to the bar, decidedly ordering a quick drink. The bartender took the payment and started on it, Din watching him work. “I heard Fennec Shand came through town. That true?” he asked as casually as he could muster. 

The bartender nodded and set Din’s glass on the bartop. “She sure did; whole goddamn town won’t shut the hell up about her,” the bartender gestured off behind Din, “especially ‘cause she’s still here.”

Din followed the bartender’s lazy hand, spotting a lone woman sat alone at a table in the back. She had a gun spread out on the table, cleaning it carefully between short sips of her drink. Din tipped his head to the bartender and took his glass, stepping away from the bar. 

Shand said nothing as he pulled up a chair, sitting down across from her. “Nice rifle,” he said after a moment, watching her empty out the magazine. She didn’t look at him as she responded. 

“What do you want?” 

Din held up his hands defensively, “Just admiring the weaponry — my mother was a gunsmith.”

Shand raised a brow, finally making eye contact. She continued on cleaning her gun, Din eyeing it all the while. His mother may not have been a gunsmith, but Auntie did ensure he knew whatever it was she handed to him. It was the same sort of rifle Paz would fawn over through shop windows and go on about for hours — how rare the make was, how it only took such-and-such caliber, and how he’d love to get one for himself. Din zoned out most of the time, but as he watched Shand set down the gun’s parts to pull a pack of bullets from her pocket, he couldn’t help but connect a few dots. 

Din squinted against the brief ray of light that flowed in from the door of the bar, blinking a few times as he made out the figure outlined with sun. Boba had apparently caught up to him, the bar going a weird sort of silent as he stepped in, so quiet that Din could hear the man’s spurs as his boots hit the ground. Shand, back turned to the door, froze as she must’ve caught the sound, head lifting from the bullet pack. When she saw Boba, she dropped it, a few of the rounds slipping from her hand and giving out sharp little metallic clinks as they fell across the table and hit the ground. 

Din shuffled to the floor as Shand reoriented herself to curse under her breath and pick up the bullets on the table. He took the opportunity to gather the bullets that had landed on the ground, spinning one between his fingers to peek at the tiny lettering on the back. He had been right. 

“Thanks,” Shand muttered as Din handed the bullets to her. She was piecing her rifle back together with a poorly hidden panic. Din knew why now and caught Boba’s line of sight across the bar. 

“Boba Fett!” came a loud voice all of the sudden, a chair screeching as a drunken man launched out of it. He slurred angrily, “You killed my uncle, you sonovabitch!”

The bar broke out into chaos as the man practically threw himself at Boba, striking him across the face. 

And, well. _Fett_. Where had Din heard that before?

He decided to save the question for later, jumping up from his seat as he watched Boba swing with his left hand, visibly regretting the decision. Din huffed, knowing he would have to fix the stitches Boba probably just tore in his shoulder, getting between the two of them and taking over on Boba’s behalf.

The drunk man reeked something fierce, the smell of alcohol filling Din’s nose as he struggled with him. Around him, other patrons had decided to make their own fun, smashing chairs and hitting at each other. Bar fights were the sort of thing Paz would always get real riled up about, Din only ever seeing the aftermath on his brother’s bruised and grinning face. Always something to prove with him, and as Din got knuckles slammed straight across his nose, he knew he _still_ didn’t understand the appeal. 

Boba abruptly decided to join the effort, coming up behind the drunk man to wrap — what Din hoped was — his right arm around the man’s neck, pinning his back to Boba’s chest. Din hit him hard across the face once then twice, shaking out his achy hand as the man fell unconscious to the ground. 

“What the hell was that?” Boba rasped. 

“What?” Din gritted out as he touched a few fingers to his bloody nose. Boba was staring at him all weird again, similar to how he had when Din offered to work together. 

He gestured to the man between them on the ground, _“That._ ” 

Din’s brows furrowed, confused, opening his mouth to respond but only coming out with a curse as he found the empty table where Shand had been. “She’s gone,” he said.

“Who?” 

“Fennec Shand,” Din told him, Boba eyes widening a bit in surprise. “She’s the one who shot you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Her rifle only takes a specific kind of caliber, the same kind I dug out of you. Shopkeeper said her and some company came into town last night. It’s definitely them.”

Boba nodded along, “Good work, then. Let’s see if we can find her.”

Din was more than happy to comply, following Boba out of the raucous saloon and back into the streets outside. He thought back to the hotel he had seen, maybe the clinic, or—

From the center of town came a screeching whistle, Din and Boba immediately turning to each other with a shared look of distress. _The train._

The two of them raced to the station, people staring as they weaved between buildings. The train was starting up, the sound of rails squealing and engines firing up drowning out the quiet townspeople and birds overhead. Just as they made it to the tracks, the train was taking off, chugging away and bursting with steam from the front. Din panted as he stopped center on the track, Boba a few steps behind him, hands on his knees as he gathered his breath. 

“Damn it,” Din heaved. Boba started toward the station, shoving open the door with a foot. Din heard a bit of clattering inside, assuming Boba probably startled the ticketer. He trailed after him, finding Boba snarling with frustration, hands gripping the countertop. 

“You just missed her!” The ticketer was spluttering, Boba huffing angrily. No doubt the ticketer meant Shand. “ _No shit_ I just missed her. Where is that train going?”

The ticketer pointed anxiously to a sign attached to the thin glass between him and Boba. “Southwest to the city,” he replied. 

“And when is the next train for _that?_ ”

“F...four days.”

_“Four days?”_ He and Din exclaimed at the same time. A shared look of agitation passed between them. “We don’t have four days,” Din sighed.

The ticketer reached into a drawer on his side of the counter, “H-Here, a um, if you travel by horse it should only take one or two.” He pulled out a large sheet of paper, unfolding it. It was a map. 

“This trail leads straight there,” he told them, Din and Boba watching his finger point along a line drawn on the paper. “There’s even a, there’s even a farming village through there you could,” he glanced up and immediately looked back down at the sight of Din and Boba’s eyes on him, “c-could stop and get supplies if need be.”

Boba reached through the small hole at the bottom of the glass divider, snatching the map from the ticketer. The squirrely man jumped as he did so, Boba holding the map open. Din looked at it over Boba’s shoulder, eyes tracing the line the ticketer directed them to. At the bottom left, sure enough, there was a sloppy drawing of a few boxes and SW CITY scribbled between them. The little set of train tracks drawn across the map seemed to almost avoid the city before going toward it, meaning there was a shot if he and Boba were quick enough they might be able to make it there just as Shand and the bounty did, or at least a little bit afterword. 

“If we leave now we might catch up,” Din said as Boba folded the map, sticking it in his back pocket. They stepped out of the station, sun still ever-glaring. 

“I was right about my mare, Din. Her foot is sprained and I just walked her through the goddamn mountains.” 

Din frowned and Boba sighed. “She’s a good horse and I don’t want to leave her here, but…” 

“We can come back after we turn the bounty in,” Din told him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Boba watched the movement and stared at Din with that look again. 

“You sure you want to stick with me that long?”

“Why not?”

Boba stopped in place, a guilty sort of expression overtaking his features, “You heard my name in the bar.”

“Fett?” And Din suddenly remembered his conversation with Cara back in Nevarro; about what she did before working for Karga, her own trial of bounty hunting, and that pesky bastard she couldn’t fathom Din not knowing. More importantly, how _if a bounty’s got his name on it, it’s his._ Then he thought of the people staring as they came into town, but how the looks drifted considerably when he was on his lonesome in the bar. _Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him,_ Cara had laughed, disbelieving. Boba, staring up at him in the cabin, _Don’t you know who I am?_

Din’s realization must have shown across his face, because Boba became visibly uncomfortable. That damn sorry-for-himself look was in his avoidant eyes, like he had wronged Din in some way. Din thought back to Boba’s odd way of staring at him and how he had given up the bounty without a fight. And hell, how well could she really know him if he was nothing like she said he was? 

“What of it?” Din continued. Boba blinked up at him, confusion clear across his face. “What?”

“ _What of it?_ ” Din repeated, starting to walk again. Boba was still for a moment before Din heard his spurs, the man catching up to him. 

“Do you really not know who I am?”

“Hardly,” Din said honestly. “You and everybody’s obsession with your name is the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve seen.” 

Boba snorted, “What kind of bounty hunter are you?”

“Never said I was a bounty hunter.”

Boba stuttered, “Well — damn it.” It was Din’s turn to snort. Boba continued, “Where’s the rock you’ve been living under for the past,” he waved his hand around, “however long?”

Din cocked a brow at him, looking over his shoulder to see Boba’s flabbergasted expression. He felt his lips quirk a bit with amusement. “East,” he said, “far east.”

Boba hummed, suddenly sharing Din’s smirk. “Think you could take me far east sometime, then?”

“Why, so you can spread the family name a little further?” Din chuckled, Boba doing the same. He thought of Auntie sat on the porch of their cabin, a tin of coffee between her hands, golden scarf wrapped around her neck as she gazed out onto the trail both of her boys had wandered off on. His smirk faded to a smile and he could feel the mythosaur brushing against his chest from where it was tucked into his shirt. Meeting Boba’s dark eyes, he widened his smile, “Maybe.”

Boba side-eyed his mare while Din stood against one of the support beams within the barn. He was clearly still having second thoughts about leaving her behind, but he eventually let out a sigh and started untying the saddle from her. Din watched him pull it off of her back, her tail swishing all the while. He was murmuring to her low enough Din couldn’t hear, rubbing her neck with his hand before removing the bit from her mouth and taking the reins from her face. She nickered softly as Boba did so, him mumbling back to her. 

“You gonna get another horse?” One of the farmhands asked, approaching Boba hesitantly. Din didn’t understand why everyone was so afraid of him, even if he was as big as a bounty hunter as he and Cara had suggested. Maybe it was just how stiffly Boba responded to everyone, the gentleness he was treating his horse with fixing into an uninterested expression as he told the farmhand, “Yes, but I’m coming back for this one. _Don’t_ sell her.”

The farmhand nodded quickly, shutting Boba’s mare into the stall she stood in as he left it with the saddle in his hands, reins and bit resting on top. Boba set the saddle down by Din, “Time for a new ride, I guess.”

Din walked with him out to the field of grazing horses attached to the back of the barn. There weren’t too many, but there appeared to be a few strong looking horses. Boba stared out at them, Din thinking of when Auntie had helped him pick out his stallion. He stepped away for a moment to dig through Boba’s saddlebags, returning when he found a carrot in one. He handed it off to Boba, “See which one doesn’t bite you when you feed it,” he grinned. Boba’s brow furrowed and he very obviously tried not to smile. He scoffed before stepping out into the field, carrot in hand. 

Din observed as Boba approached a sleek black horse, its ears twitching as Boba neared. It spotted the carrot and its ears perked quickly, hooves scuffing as it inched closer. This, apparently, failed Boba’s test, as a disappointed expression crossed his face and he looked away. This happened about three more times, Din standing idly by.

“How, uh,” a voice piped up, Din’s arms uncrossing as he realized the farmhand from earlier was standing by him. “How do you know Boba Fett?”

Din shrugged, “He tried to kill me.”

The farmhand’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, “You _lived?_ ”

“All four stab wounds,” Din told him, lifting his shirt so the farmhand could see the scars he’d received from old miscalculations with his pickaxe. The farmhand looked _terrified._ “He works for me now.”

The farmhand retreated back into the barn, Din grinning to himself. He focused back on Boba, who was playing his trial and error game with a big brown and white horse now. This horse, unlike the other eager ones, backed away instead of running toward Boba. This seemed to intrigue the man, Boba continuing forward. He raised a cautious hand, the horse still careful. It eventually settled and leaned its face forward into Boba’s palm, nose snuffling before it let Boba stroke its face. Boba finally fed it the carrot. 

“I want that stallion,” Boba told the farmhand when he came back. The farmhand glanced between him and Din, as though looking for Din’s approval. Din restricted a laugh and nodded, the farmhand taking Boba’s saddle and walking out to the field. Boba didn’t miss the exchange, staring at Din. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?” 

Boba shoved his shoulder this time. 

It didn't take long for the farmhand to get Boba's new stallion saddled up, leading the horse into the barn by his new reins. Boba coughed up what he needed between his mare's injury and the new stallion, Din walking with him to retrieve his own horse from outside. 

They followed the map Boba had taken from the ticketer, making the decision to trust what they had been given and staying on the trail. It was hours after becoming sore in their saddles and watching the sun drift and the moon rise that they decided to make camp for the night. A small forested area a few yards from the road was their best bet, Boba starting up a fire while Din pulled out what blankets he had. 

Din was laying down one of said blankets when he heard Boba grunt in pain from where he was feeding the fire, left arm outstretched. Din had almost entirely forgotten. 

"You ripped those stitches, didn't you?"

"It's fine," Boba gruffed.

Din already started walking to his horse to unlatch the bag of medical supplies, Boba sighing in resignation behind him. 

"Alright, turn around," Din instructed, Boba complying easily, back facing the light of the fire. Boba pulled off his vest and shirt, Din fishing through the bag and finding the spool of thread and the needle. He pulled out a piece of cloth and reached for the little canteen of water by his makeshift bed. 

"Jesus, how hard did you hit that guy?" Din asked, frowning at the rips in Boba's skin. The wound had obviously bled more after reopening, a bit of blood scabbed around it. Din wetted the rag and wiped it away. 

"Not nearly as hard as you," Boba snorted. Din shook his head behind him, keeping at cleaning the wound. 

A comfortable silence filled in between them as Din carefully undid the previous night's work, fire crackling softly and crickets chattering around them. Other than fixing Boba up, this was probably one of the things Din had missed most about travelling — the sound of nature constantly surrounding him and breathing in cool air beneath nothing but a sky of endless stars. The first couple of nights he was on his own, he remembered trying to spot what few constellations he knew, drifting off with memories of his father's finger pointing up and tracing each glowing dot in the dark sky. Waking up to the taste of dew and being surrounded by the moist grass, sun climbing over the east and constellations receding west; it was all like that first taste of fresh air when he came out of the cabin after his days of fever. It was to his chagrin to admit it, but each night he felt the breeze and each morning he woke to pink clouds, he understood Paz's yearning a bit more. He could hardly fathom the fact he'd spent so much time wasting away in that damn mine. 

Boba hissed a bit as Din reintroduced the needle to his skin, the sound knocking Din from his head. He was more careful with the next stitch. 

"Why, uh," Boba started, Din feeling the cadence of his voice where his hands rested on Boba's back, "why _did_ you jump in earlier?"

"What do you mean _why?_ " Din scoffed, purposefully tugging the thread he was holding. Boba let out a short _ow_ , huffing exasperatedly. 

"I just — I had it covered."

"Clearly not. Can't imagine how much worse this damn thing would be if you went at that guy even once more."

"Wouldn't be the first time I dealt with something like that," Boba sighed. 

"Make it the last then," Din gruffed, Boba wincing at the next tight pull through his skin. At the very least, he shut up and Din managed to fix the stitches just fine. Upon gathering up his supplies, Boba started to pull his shirt over his shoulders. 

Din stopped him, "Now, wait a second, don't put that dirty thing on."

"What do you mean, _dirty?_ "

"I mean the fact you've bled through it twice now," Din practically scolded, walking off to his horse with the supply bag in hand. He strapped it back to the saddle and reached for a different one, pulling out the shirt he had bought back in the little trading town. He stepped back to his own bed and sat down, reaching out with the shirt in hand, "Here."

Boba stared, "What's this?"

"A clean shirt. You ever hear of one of those?"

Boba grinned a bit before it faded, blinking back and forth between Din and the poorly folded clothing. "You're serious?"

Din grumbled, "No, I just bought it to wave in your face. Yes, I'm serious. Christ."

Boba took it from Din almost hesitantly, Din cocking a confused brow all the while, watching Boba gander at it. _Are all big bounty hunters this goddamn weird?_

He eventually unfolded it, undoing the buttons and pulling it on. It seemed to fit alright, though a bit tight around the broad of his shoulders and chest. Din must've thought too much about height and not enough about size. It wasn't a bad look, though. 

"Who are you?" Boba asked, like it was the perfect sort of response instead of _thanks._

Din leaned onto his back, eyes finding the stars. "Told you earlier — just a guy from the far east."

The fire crackled in the silence of Din's reply, Boba only staring at Din a bit longer. Din glanced at him, seemingly driving away Boba's curious eyes. The sound of Boba shuffling to lay on his blanket came afterwards, a quiet curse coming from him as he shifted from his back to his stomach, shoulder surely aching. 

Din fell asleep to the sound of Boba's deep breathing and the sight of his father's favorite constellation. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope I'm writing these guys alright, so if anyone feels like I'm not - tell me please! Feedback of any sort is appreciated and motivates me (:


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